Prepared
by jacik
Summary: Don almost never takes his gun off, and Charlie wonders why.


Prepared

Fandom: Numb3rs

Genre: Hurt/Comfort and Family. This little oneshot is a rare example of Charlie!whump for me, but still pretty Don-focused.

Rating: K+ for action

Setting: Season 3-ish

POV: Charlie

Pairing: None

Disclaimer: Numb3rs isn't mine. This plot is, insofar as it is remotely unique, haha.

Preface: Don pretty much never takes his gun off, and Charlie wonders why.

*********Numb3rs*********

"Don," Charlie said, settling comfortably on the couch next to where his older brother was watching the hockey game in the old-but-cozy Craftsman house Charlie shared with their father, Alan.

"What is it, buddy?" Don asked absently, a handful of popcorn halfway to his mouth.

"Why do you never take your gun holster off?"

Don looked up, surprised. Charlie stared pointedly at the offending object, the Glock's black grip visible in the leather case that hung at Don's slouched waist. Don shook his head evasively. "You know I gotta be ready to go on duty at a moment's notice," he said. "This just saves time." Don flipped his attention back to the game, and Charlie watched his casual movements for a moment. There had to be more to it than that; something in Don's demeanor was too casual, intentionally so. _What was he hiding?_

********Numb3rs*********

"Meghan." Charlie caught up with the taller profiler's strides as they both left the briefing room where Don had been filling in his team on the latest details in their search for a missing fugitive. "Wait up; I have something I need to ask you."

"Sure, Charlie." Megan stopped and turned in the hall, smiling. "What's up?"

Charlie looked back at the room. He could still see his brother, moving purposefully across it, gathering up the files and photos he'd been passing around; jacket off, his sleeves casually rolled up on arms that moved both fluidly and deliberately; and there, at his hip, the ever-present holstered weapon. No surprise here, at the FBI field office. Charlie lowered his voice a hair. "Not here. Outside."

"Okay." Megan followed him out into the bright sunlight by the FBI facility's rear entrance, and they stood for a moment at the walkway railing before Charlie looked her way again.

"Megan, why does Don wear his gun all the time?"

She smiled again. "Charlie, it's policy that field agents on duty wear their service weapon at all times. Your brother may be a team lead but he's still a field agent."

"I know," Charlie said, nodding. "That's not what I mean. What about off duty? Don never takes his off, except maybe to sleep, and even that I have no proof of. Do you think he feels, I don't know, unsafe?" Charlie rather hated that thought-hated the idea that Don's job at the FBI, a job he knew his brother loved, could also make Don, no, not afraid-Don was never afraid of anything-but insecure? Worried about his personal safety on some sort of continual basis?

Megan shook her head with a grimace she probably intended as a reassuring smile. "No, Charlie, I don't think Don keeps his gun on him because he's afraid for his safety. This is Don we're talking about. Listen, why don't you just ask him?"

"I did," Charlie replied glumly. "He gave me a non-answer."

*********Numb3rs*********

It was only a week later when Charlie got the answer to his question. Alan was away-a business trip with Stan, his partner at the consulting firm. Charlie had talked an exhausted Don into staying over that evening; Don's team had had a lead break on their fugitive case the night before, and Don had been out following it for most of the night and all of the next day. David had dropped him off at Charlie's rather than risk a sleep-deprived Don behind the wheel of his own SUV, and Don had only lasted a half hour watching the basketball game with Charlie before Charlie had noticed his head had dropped forward on his chest. Charlie had cleared away the pizza, turned the TV off, and maneuvered his big brother into a proper sleeping position across the couch, all without waking Don up, before retreating to his own upstairs room.

Charlie wasn't sure what has roused him: maybe it was the soft sound of a downstairs door opening and shutting, or maybe the slight disturbance of air pressure in the house that made his own door quietly thump in its frame; but whatever it was, it had him out of bed and padding down the wood stairs, wondering if maybe his brother was also up. Hearing nothing obvious, he shifted course at the bottom of the staircase and headed toward the kitchen intent on a glass of milk. Charlie barely registered the quiet footsteps coming up behind him on the linoleum floor as he stood, groggily contemplating the inside of the refrigerator. "Don?"

Instead of his brother's mumbled, sleepy reply, Charlie suddenly felt a very strong set of arms go around his chest and neck, dragging him backward, off balance. "Hey, Don, not funny-" he started before he realized what should have been immediately obvious. The arms were not Don's. The body of the man holding him was too tall to be Don-he could feel the man's breath on the top of his head-and something shiny and sharp flashed in his periphery, marking the hand closest to Charlie's neck and prompting the youngest Eppes to let out a hysterical gulp.

 _Where was Don?! To be here, had this man already used his knife on the sleeping FBI agent in the front room?!_

Charlie stopped himself before he could scream. There was, after all, a knife pressed to his throat.

"That's good," the man soothed, his voice quiet and coaxing. "Don't struggle, and don't scream. There isn't any reason to, really. No one can hear you."

Charlie's throat choked convulsively. _Don!_

"Now walk," the man pressured, still quiet. "Like that." Charlie shuffled forward, slow enough to enough to let the man follow with the same firm embrace. It was, Charlie thought, like some grotesque waltz. "Keep walking," the man said, when Charlie's stockinged feet hesitated in the hall leading to the living room. "I plan to leave you where you'll be easy for your brother to find."

Before Charlie could process the two facts he'd just learned-first, that this man was planning to kill him, and second, that Don was not dead and therefore this intruder must not know he was actually in the house-they were to the living room, and it was Charlie's captor's turn to be taken by surprise. Charlie felt a ripple of tension run through the man as they both saw the contents of the room.

Don stood in its center, still in the jeans and t-shirt he'd been wearing on the couch that evening, empty holster still clipped to his belt, and feet planted firmly, a little wide, as he held his Glock intently on the intruder, aimed above Charlie's head.

"Agent Eppes," the man laughed. "If I'd known you were going to be here tonight I might have timed my visit a little differently."

"Drop the knife and let Charlie go," Don answered, sleep just coloring what Charlie recognized as his control voice-an intentionally deep, authoritative tone.

The man's grip tightened and Charlie could feel the sharp edge of the knife press in just a little harder. "Don," he fairly squeaked.

"I made you a promise," the man said, "when you put me away. I said I'd find the person closest to you, and as far as I can tell, this is it. Put the gun down, or you can tell your little brother how much he means to you when it's too late to matter."

"Put the knife down," Don said again, his voice another shade deeper, "or I swear I'll drop you if you so much as twitch. Move it away from his neck. Slowly." Don's face was as intensely hard as Charlie had ever seen it. They stood, motionless, for another long second before Don bellowed, "I said drop it! Now!"

The man's arm swung up and away, and the knife clattered to the floor under, Charlie thought, the influence of Don's burning gaze. Just before it did, Charlie felt the snick of something biting into his skin, and as the man loosened his grip and stepped back, Charlie's knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor. Then Don was clambering past him, yelling, waving the Glock and rattling handcuffs past Charlie's rapidly narrowing field of vision. The last thing Charlie remembered was his brother's pale face speaking soundlessly while his firm hands pressed something very hard against Charlie's throat.

********Numb3rs*********

"Hey, sleepy-head." The hand that was ruffling Charlie's hair was definitely his brother's. The voice definitely went with it; and when Charlie popped his eyes open, he confirmed his working hypothesis. Don's face was in view, wearing a discreet grin. "Good to have you back with us."

"I'm in the hospital." Charlie found himself stating the obvious in mild confusion. He tried to turn his head to see better. _Ugh. That hurt._

"Easy, Chuck," Don said. "You've got like two-dozen stitches in your neck."

Charlie's eyebrows raised and he shrugged himself upward on the pillow. "The guy who broke in. I remember now." He cut a quick glance at Don, who seemed to be in one piece. "You okay?"

"Oh, yeah." Don reached out and patted Charlie's hair again. "Hey, buddy, I'm sorry I didn't stop him from hurting you. You had me really scared for a bit." A look of guilt passed over Don's already overly-responsible features.

"Hey," Charlie said, wanting to put his older brother at ease. "You saved my life. You know, he was going to kill me and," Charlie grimaced, "leave me there for you to find."

"I know, buddy," Don said. "I know."

Charlie scooted up on his elbows so he could look at Don eye-to-eye, careful not to tilt his head any further than necessary. "You're second guessing yourself, aren't you," he said, watching Don keenly. "You're thinking if you'd taken that shot, and taken it sooner, you could have prevented this."

"Well, yeah," Don admitted. "I guess so."

"Okay," Charlie asked undiplomatically, "why didn't you? You were fully prepared to. You had a pretty clear shot; he was a whole head taller than me."

"I don't know," Don said, slowly. "I guess because I promised him six years ago I when I first arrested him that I would bring him in alive, make him face the consequences, you know. When he brought up promises, I guess I still felt like I had to keep mine. Besides," Don said, glancing out the window across the room where the morning sunlight was filtering in, "I guess I really thought I could talk him down; I was hoping nobody would have to die this time."

Charlie could tell Don was struggling with the consequences of the decision he'd made, even if it had ultimately been the right one.

"Hey, Don," Charlie said, drawing back his brother's focus. "I've figured out finally why you never take your gun off."

"Oh, yeah?" Don asked, his voice challenging but his gaze teasing. "Why's that, genius?"

Charlie's face was sober. "It's because there's guys like that out there who might want to hurt me or Dad."

Don gave a short nod. "One less of them, though." He seemed prepared to drop the subject.

Charlie wasn't quite ready to. "So, do you take it off in your own apartment, or do you, like, clip your holster to your boxers when you go to bed-?"

*********Numb3rs*********

finis


End file.
